Do I Wanna Know?
“Do I Wanna Know?” by the Artic Monkeys conjures up a very specific image in my mind. It has since the first time I heard it…
She lives Parisian Noir and mixes it with the romanticized ex-pat days of Marrakesh or Havana while actually addressing her mail to Portland or Brooklyn or somewhere else painfully too-cool. She’s an artist. Pick your poison, sculptor, painter, poet. Something that leaves a hint of creativity on her hands. Paint here or graphite smudged there, maybe traces of words she won’t let you read in blue ink on the side of her left palm. She never really gets dressed in the morning. The champagne colored satin and lace slip she wears to bed hangs just fine on her overly slight frame as she walks on tiptoes around the apartment. When she opens the fire escape to smoke her hand rolled cigarettes through a Cruella Deville-like filter, she’ll add a black shall, the vintage kind that’s painstakingly gorgeous lace with fringey tassels that hang all along the edges. She likes the way it dances across her thighs.
She spends a lot of her days draped over a baroque chaise lounge, languidly playing with her raven locks. Its ok though, because the man who can’t get over her does too. He listens to that song, you know that song, over and over on a decaying gramophone while listlessly dreaming of her. Or hallucinating about her. Or both. He sits in that way guys have, you know that way. Shirtless, his legs spread wide, the top button of his pants left loose, hands pushing through his hair. He blows smoke rings towards the ceiling and alternates between whiskey and Old Germans to tick the minutes away.
She’s like a poison, rich and thick in his veins. She always had been. When she walked into that bar, the whole world anchored to her before weaving tendrils of her magic filtered up and into his nose, and eyes, and ears. Slowly the tingling moved through his body before pooling in groin and throat, choking off all breath. Like a moth to a flame he’d gone to her, pushed her up against a wall and kissed her. Hard. As if she had expected it, she kissed back, biting on his thin lips and rubbing her t-strapped foot along his denim clad calf. She’d been wearing silk stockings.
She was the one to suggest going home. To her place. He’d been helpless to agree, she had him by his suddenly aching balls. They had barely uttered ten words between them when she unbolted her loft door. Yanking him by the shirt, she’d taken him mercilessly. Every piece of clothing was scattered to the warm breeze that seemed to stir in the apartment. Every piece of clothing except her silk stockings and the garters they were attached to. They stayed firmly in place as she shoved him to the ground.
She pinned his wrists to the herringbone floor, leaning over him enough that her rouged nipples brushed across his chest. He’d been helpless except to arch up into her. Carefully she wrapped her fingers around his erection, paint or ink or clay or whatever, even then on her hands. She positioned herself over him and slowly slid all the way on. In a haze of lust and alcohol she rolled her hips, the rhythm deep and sensual, till everything went bright white and numb. Their relationship burned like that, torrid and almost wordless, till one day it just wasn’t anymore. She’d had someone else in her loft that day.
She, and that first night, are all that fills his thoughts now, specially at that bar. Or drunk. Or, hell, even when he falls asleep on that brocade settee. She’d thoroughly screwed him on it once and when he gets really high and drinks cheap whiskey he can smell the tobacco and Chanel that still hangs on her skin. He’ll call when he wakes in the middle of the night those nights. Usually he wakes from his throbbing cock, the remnants of another dream of her wafting through his life like a smoky illusion. Those are the moments he leaves rambling messages on her hidden answering machine. The one that only picks up after a million rings on her black, chipped rotary phone. If she thinks of him when she’s shithoused, he’ll feel some relief. Her complete occupation of his addled thoughts can’t be a complete waste.
She’s always awake when he calls. She leans out from behind her easel, or wheel or notebook and watches that rotary phone ring. She never answers. There are no clocks in her loft but judging from the low street light and lack of honking cabs she guesses it’s 3 or 4 or 5am. His voice is always the same. A deep, honeyed purr laced with the lisp of a tortured drunk. She tilts her head as he finishes his same old sentences. Of course she thinks of him. Him inside her, him wrapped around her, him tangled in her sheets. But just like a good song, if it’s the only one you hear, you get tired of it. The repetition ruining something once so decidedly delicious. The best songs are striking, sexy and burn bright before hunkering down and becoming a low humming memory in your ears.